


Mine to Cherish, Yours to Possess

by riventhorn



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: D/s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-08
Updated: 2011-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:42:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's when Arthur makes him eat the rat stew--that's when Merlin can't ignore these feelings any longer</p><p>Warnings: D/s</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine to Cherish, Yours to Possess

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the D/s square on my kink_bingo card
> 
> Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended; no profit is being made from this

On most mornings, Merlin threw open Arthur’s curtains with a cheerful clatter, banged about the room until Arthur shouted at him, and managed to tangle the laces of Arthur’s breeches into a puzzling knot.

“Is it possible for you to be any more incompetent?” Arthur would say, his hair all ruffled like an angry dog because Merlin had neglected to open the neck of his tunic far enough before tugging it over his head.

Occasionally, particularly on soft, grey mornings when rain rippled down the windows, Merlin actually behaved like a proper servant. He slid the curtains open, the cloth whispering against the stone. He put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, rubbing gently until Arthur woke. And he warmed Arthur’s clothes by the fire before he dressed, smoothing the soft fabric against Arthur’s arms.

On those mornings, Arthur would give him a look, so pleased and satisfied. And it _did_ things to Merlin. Gave him an odd feeling in his stomach and made him flush hotly under his neckerchief. He would sidle away, clumsiness returning, and Arthur’s eyes would narrow, watching.

Perhaps it might have continued like that—a delicate balance of insubordination and fierce loyalty, of carelessness and affection. A string of days marked by shouting and teasing and cold breakfasts and lukewarm baths interrupted by a quiet moment when he combed soapy fingers through Arthur’s hair and followed the rivulets of water across the spread of Arthur’s shoulders, bowed in the firelight.

But then Arthur made him eat the rat stew, and the narrow bridge he had been standing on crumbled under his feet.

Arthur had shoved him into his chair, and Merlin was trying to choke down mouthfuls of the stringy meat while Arthur stood over him, hands warm and commanding on his body. And in the midst of it, Merlin realized that the strange feeling in his stomach was not induced by the rat, but rather by a growing arousal that soon had his cock pressing against his breeches.

A moan slipped out of him, and he heard Arthur’s breath catch, but at that moment Morgana appeared, and Arthur’s attention was directed elsewhere.

That night, curled up in his own bed, stomach growling, Merlin thought back to what had happened. He had failed to satisfy Arthur. And his master had punished him and been pleased when Merlin submitted to the punishment.

Submitting…to Arthur… _oh, gods_. To coax that satisfied, approving smile from him in return for his service. Merlin whimpered and took himself in hand, stroking his prick, thinking of it. And if he behaved badly, Arthur would punish him as he saw fit. He would teach Merlin how to be good, how to please him.

His orgasm ripped through him, and Merlin lay there, panting, wondering which would be worse—for Arthur to discover his feelings or to remain ignorant of them. He could hardly grapple with them himself—when had this deep yearning developed? When had the tangle of emotions that surrounded him and Arthur—respect and derision and trust and deception—settled into a knot around his heart? A knot that eased when he let Arthur’s voice fill him and command him, praising and chastising until he could writhe from the pleasure of it.

It seemed that Arthur had taken note of his reaction as well, for when they returned from the labyrinth—Arthur once more safe, once more Merlin’s to guard and care for—he sensed Arthur observing him, carefully noting the shiver that sometimes worked its way over Merlin’s body when Arthur gave him an order, the way he flushed and squirmed at a rare word of praise. Merlin didn’t know what to do, couldn’t stop the reactions, could only tremble, poised between arousal and embarrassment.

On one particular afternoon, he was kneeling on the floor, scrubbing at a stain in a half-hearted manner, when he heard Arthur come in and walk over. Merlin glanced at his dirty boots and started to straighten up and squawk in outrage because Arthur was strolling on the patch he had just scrubbed, when suddenly one of Arthur’s boots landed on his neck.

“What are you doing, Merlin?” Arthur asked lightly. His boot pressed steadily, and Merlin folded back down to the floor.

“Wh—what?” he gasped, cheek pressed to the wet stone, completely taken aback.

“Can’t you even manage a simple job like this? There’s water everywhere, you’ve completely neglected to scrub under the table, and what you _have_ scrubbed could hardly be called clean.”

Merlin scrabbled ineffectually against the stone, Arthur still pinning him to the floor.

And then the boot disappeared, and Arthur squatted next to him. The ends of his long brown coat brushed the floor by Merlin’s head. Before he could move, Arthur gripped him by the neck and gave him a little shake. “Do you want to know what you’re going to do?” he asked, his tone still light, conversational. “You’re going to scrub it again while I sit here and watch. Make sure you do it properly.”

“Yes, sire,” he managed, squeezing his eyes shut, his cock thickening at the words, at the way Arthur held him, dominated him.

“That’s right,” Arthur said in a low voice, and the side of his hand brushed against Merlin’s face. “That’s how you address your master.”

“Yes, sire,” he whispered again, shaking, opening his eyes to see Arthur watching him. Arthur’s expression was blank, but his eyes burned hotly.

He sat in his chair, and Merlin shuffled back over to where he had started, dragging the bucket. He was sure Arthur couldn’t help but notice his arousal, but Arthur didn’t say anything. A heavy silence fell, only the drag of the brush on the stone and Merlin’s grunts of effort breaking it.

After he had scrubbed about five feet—and admittedly, it was a lot cleaner this time around—Arthur ordered him to stop.

“Come here,” Arthur said.

He staggered up, the knees of his breeches soaked, the sleeves of his tunic damp.

“Kneel,” Arthur ordered when Merlin was standing in front of him, and he sank down between the spread “v” of Arthur’s legs. His cock, which had subsided as he scrubbed, stiffened again.

“That was very good,” Arthur murmured, his voice like warm honey dripping over Merlin’s body.

“Do you like being taught how to serve me properly?” Arthur continued, rubbing his thumb against the curve of Merlin’s ear.

“I—I—” He could feel tears pricking his eyes. He felt overwhelmed and unsure and a little frightened.

“Shhhh,” Arthur soothed, and his fingers moved into Merlin’s hair, petting and stroking. “You like serving me, pleasing me. And you should. I’m your prince, Merlin.”

“Sire,” Merlin breathed out, lashes wet against his face as he blinked up at Arthur.

“I’m your prince,” Arthur repeated, and Merlin understood. It was a prince’s duty to look after his people, to care for them. He would never hurt Merlin. Not when they were like this.

The realization freed something in him, and he bent down, pressing his mouth to the leather of Arthur’s boot, kissing it. Arthur allowed the gesture, and when Merlin glanced up, he could see the bulge of Arthur’s hard cock. But after a moment, Arthur stood up. “Finish your work,” he said and went over to his desk, busying himself with some papers.

By the evening, the mood had passed. He spilled wine over Arthur’s sleeve, Arthur snorted and rolled his eyes, and Merlin managed to get in a few not-quite-insults that left Arthur spluttering indignantly. He called Arthur by his name, and Arthur said “Merlin” in a tone of resigned exasperation.

But a few days later, on an afternoon when the sunlight had turned mellow, and Arthur was tired from training, and a little subdued because he had to meet with Uther to discuss matters of state after supper, Merlin felt that stirring of want and need again.

He carefully removed Arthur’s armor. Arthur sank onto the bed, dressed only in his loose, red tunic and hose. Merlin climbed up behind him and put his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, kneading the tense muscles.

“Ahh,” Arthur sighed, relaxing into it. His head lolled back against Merlin’s stomach, and when Merlin released his shoulders, he put his fingers in the soft, blonde strands.

“Is that better, sire?” he whispered.

Arthur murmured an agreement. Merlin fetched his clothes, helping him dress, kneeling down to slip on Arthur’s boots. Over supper, he kept Arthur’s cup full without spilling a drop and then eased a thick cloak over Arthur’s shoulders as he prepared to go meet the king. He was turning away when Arthur caught his wrist.

“ _Merlin_ ,” he said in a long, slow drawl. “So good tonight, aren’t we?” He smiled, thumb rubbing over sharp bones.

“Sire.” Merlin bowed his head, relishing the trickle of arousal creeping up his spine.

“Follow me,” Arthur ordered and led Merlin to the thick rug spread in front of the fireplace. “Kneel.”

Merlin did as he was told, settling back on his heels.

“You will stay like this—just like this—until I return. Understood?”

“Yes, my lord.” He started to settle into a more comfortable position.

A strong hand gripped his hair, arching his head back. He blinked up at Arthur, catching his hand on the rug for balance.

Arthur raised his eyebrows, watching the pulse beat wildly in Merlin’s throat. “Did you not hear me, Merlin? I told you not to move.”

When he let go, Merlin sagged back on his knees and froze, keeping his hands at his sides.

Arthur hummed and strode from the room.

It was a long hour that followed. His knees began to ache. As his mother had often remarked, Merlin could never sit still for long, and he wanted to fidget, to look out the window, to stretch out his legs. Arthur wouldn’t know; he could be back in place by the time Arthur returned.

But he stayed and didn’t move, not even when the door finally opened.

A few moments passed. He heard the sound of wine being poured and then Arthur knelt behind him. “So good, to stay just as I bade you.” Arthur’s mouth was right next to his ear, and a second later, warm hands closed around his arms.

He relaxed back against Arthur’s chest, sighing.

“A little puzzle,” Arthur murmured. “That’s what you are. You push and pull against me till I can scarcely breathe. And then you come to me, like a tender whisper, your body so pliant to my hand. Wanting what only I can give you.”

Merlin shuddered, the terrible desire to lay himself bare before Arthur almost overwhelming him. To confess—to throw himself at his lord’s mercy.

The first syllables poised on the edge of his tongue, and then Arthur bent forward and pressed a kiss to the side of his mouth, smothering them.

“You will serve me in this, too, won’t you?” Arthur asked, cupping Merlin’s groin in his hand, squeezing.

“Oh!” Merlin jerked, startled. “Sire—”

Arthur’s fingers were working at his laces. “There,” he murmured when he freed Merlin’s cock. “Such an eager prick; it fits so readily to my hand.” He bit Merlin’s ear, a gentle press of his teeth.

Merlin moaned, shockingly loud, and scrabbled his fingers against Arthur’s thigh. “Sire—sire _please_ ,” he gasped.

“I know.” Arthur kissed the sensitive skin at Merlin’s neck as he stroked harder. “Look at how sweet you are for me,” he praised, and Merlin thrashed against him, needing more, wanting to give his prince more.

When he came, his seed trickled over Arthur’s hand, and Arthur caught it, holding his fingers up to Merlin’s mouth. He laved them with his tongue before slumping in Arthur’s arms, worn with pleasure.

“I think I shall keep you here tonight,” Arthur said, sinking back and letting Merlin stretch in his lap. “Let you warm my bed.”

He sighed and nuzzled at Arthur’s neck.

“You’d like that?”

“Mmmmm—yes, my lord,” he replied, getting a hand under Arthur’s tunic to stroke warm skin.

“Have you been with others?” Arthur asked, curious, and Merlin shook his head, flushing.

But Arthur seemed well satisfied with his answer.

Lying on the soft bed, legs spread, Arthur opening him with deft fingers while telling him how good he was, how much pleasure he was going to take from Merlin’s body—he let Arthur use him and fuck him and gave himself over to the service of his prince.

In the morning, of course, he woke Arthur with a poke to the ribs, and Arthur hit him over the head with a pillow in retaliation. But Merlin knew there would be other nights when he would fall to his knees and allow Arthur to master him. And one day, one glorious day, his soul would be stripped of the pretense and the lies, and Arthur would judge him and then gather the tattered shreds of his being close and cradle them in his hand.


End file.
